


THE JESTER'S MEMOIR,

by cyberamic



Category: Everyman HYBRID
Genre: Epilogue, Gen, Memoirs, POV Multiple, Post-Canon, Short Stories
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-22
Packaged: 2021-03-05 00:02:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25435081
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cyberamic/pseuds/cyberamic
Summary: Another go round, another cycle, another iteration. So begins the fourth era, intended to be the last of them all. Friendships shall be reignited, family will be found, and stories lost to time are brought to light - ensuring the misery of those four children from the town of ash will never be endured again.
Kudos: 10





	THE JESTER'S MEMOIR,

(0)

BREATHE IN YOUR NEW YEAR.

* * *

**reINTRODUCTION**

(1)

It’s cloudy outside, overcast. Every single day has been exactly the same - same weather, same daylight filtering through clouds, same world painted in a yellow-gray haze. I don’t know how many days have gone by, I can’t seem to remember. My mind is in a haze of its own, too.

The one thing I do know right now is that I am not alone here, not anymore. I _was_ alone, I think. I came to this house in my own car and on my own free will...and then, some _thing_ showed up.

This thing calls itself the Habit. It’s impossible to describe exactly _what_ it is, especially since I can’t physically see it with my own two eyes, but any other description is irrelevant.

Wherever I look, I see nothing else here but myself and the house around me. But I know the Habit is here, because it speaks to me. It talks a lot, actually, and hardly says anything of importance. Sometimes it goes on lengthy rants about topics I have absolutely no context for, sometimes it tries to act like a long time friend. It’s...confusing.

I would have guessed that maybe the Habit just likes to hear itself talk more than anything, but as of today I learned a little about what all of this is about.

“You are still blind to what is at hand,” it says, its voice reverberating deep within my ear canals and burrowing into my brain, “but I will force your eyes wide open, til your fuckin’ eyelids fall clean off if I gotta.” Then it laughs. I don’t believe it’s joking though.

The Habit tells me it has particular instructions I am to follow from here on. Apparently, my written account is part of it. I am writing whatever this is at its personal request - though _threatened_ would probably be more accurate. My future is only made certain for as long as I am a necessary part in whatever the Habit has in store.

God...what is going to happen to me?

(2)

According to the Habit, it is 12 AM now. Night time doesn’t occur when it should, if it ever does at all, because it has stopped getting dark outside for sometime. Measuring time in exact and consistent units is, as far as I’ve tried, impossible. Liquid time. Unchanging cloudy weather.

I’m told I should write another entry, and with nothing else to do in the house, I might as well get a head start.  
  
I couldn’t get any rest after what I last wrote, but sleeping is a waste. I don’t think I can feel tired anymore...but from what I saw only ten minutes ago, looking in my bathroom mirror, the physical effects are very much all there. I look like I haven’t slept in days. I fixed my gaze on the mirror.  
  
For a moment, just briefly, there was a creeping terror digging itself up from the back of my mind, a question I have encountered before:

_Am I who I see in my own reflection?_

I eventually managed to take my eyes off my reflections eyes and direct them to the open window over the bathtub. There I saw the never ending sea of gray clouds rolling across the sky with purposeless conviction, accompanied by the greenest of forests with their crooked tree lines zigzagging across the bountiful mountainous terrain on into oblivion. I heard a blue jay call. I felt the omnipresent warmth of the sun’s light on my face...

I exhaled for the first time in what could have been an eternity in those few seconds, and my existential anxiety vanished. Nature sure is beautiful. Eerily beautiful. 

Something is horrifying and wonderfully wrong about this place.

So maybe I don’t know if the person I see in the mirror is me or not, but such a concern is hardly something I ought to dwell on now. Check this: I’m being held hostage by a ghost and I am tasked with writing its demonic manifesto unwillingly and without a shred of formality, my god! It’s enough burden to fall helplessly into the allure of the yellow-gray numbness that surrounds this house while also dealing with the loathsome creature itself, but imagine what I’ll have to endure after this if I get to leave! Will I be the same? Will I see my reflection as myself ever again?

The Habit laughs at me as it reads my handwriting from over my shoulder.

“Great stuff, man. Real funny shit!”

I suppose it is funny, in a way. There’s a particular irony in being able to describe my own thoughts and emotions without actually feeling them. I recognize how screwed I am in this situation and yet I’m not sad or angry or anything.

“Give it time.”

(3)

Another overcast day. It is three in the afternoon, I’m told.

I seem to have blacked out after the last entry. The last thing I recall is sitting at my desk trying to conjure words to write, since apparently I had more to say. The Habit had enough of that though, I guess. Oh well. Can’t remember what I would else have written anyways.

Thus, I find myself outside, sitting in a wooden rocking chair on the porch of the house. I haven’t been allowed outside previously; all the doors and windows were locked, and no amount of yanking or tugging or bashing would get them open again. However, now I’ve been given the opportunity to run if I really wanted. I could at least _try_. I even stand up from the rocking chair, walk to the edge of the porch, and think long and hard about sprinting straight into the forest ahead of me - consequences be damned.

Then, something catches my eye: a piece of paper resting atop an old tree stump in the yard a short distance ahead. I step down from the porch and retrieve it. 

It’s a poem.

YOU CAN RUN AND YOU CAN HIDE,

BUT I WILL ALWAYS BE BY YOUR SIDE.

THROUGH THICKEST FOG AND DARKEST NIGHT,

I’VE SEEN YOU GIVE IT YOUR ALL TO FIGHT.

EACH TIME AROUND YOU WIN SLIGHTLY MORE,

EACH FALSE END BRINGS CLOSER THE FINAL DOOR.

THE WORLD BURNED AWAY AND THE RAIN CAME AND WENT,

THOUGH BEGINNING ANEW I MUST LAMENT:

**HOW MANY LIVES HAVE WE LED AND SPENT?**

I’m not sure why, but I’ve got the strangest ache of nostalgia washing over me all of a sudden.

(4)

12 AM again. Overcast, again. I’m writing this from my desk inside the house...again.

Just like last time, I can’t recall how I ended up back inside. It’s the same shit, over and over. I write some, I forget some, I black out, I wake up, and I write some more. The only hard evidence of progression in this place are the words I spew onto the page and into the next and so on. Otherwise, I believe I must be suspended in some sort of in-between state...trapped in this liminal space.

The Habit tells me not to worry. I’m _not_ worried, can’t even feel what worrying is. This place has robbed me of that choice long ago, and the cheeky bastard knows that. However, I can still objectively assess the nature of my situation as being fucked up.

“Why is that?” the Habit asks, further feigning innocence. Here’s my answer.

That poem I found in the last entry - I think it applies to me personally. Well, myself and the Habit. To what extent I’m still not clear on, but there must be a reason it was given to me and there must be a reason why it brought on such a strong wave of familiarity. The question it ends on I’ve definitely seen before too, but for some reason, I remember it being worded slightly different.

_How many lives have **you** led and spent? → How many lives have **we** led and spent? _

How do I know this to be the case? There’s only one logical conclusion I can come to: it came from a life from before. It’s the revelation of a past I don’t quite remember being part of except for this single detail. That’s what this piece of paper is telling me.

Not only am I stuck here writing about the hellscape I’m in now, but apparently, this isn’t even my first time. History is repeating...and I’ve yet to be on the winning side if I am to believe the Habit’s word. As such, I suppose I shouldn’t expect the outcome of my current situation to be any different. 

Isn’t _that_ fucked up?

(5)

3:30 AM

I don’t know if I should be writing this down, but I don’t want to risk forgetting what I just overheard in the kitchen. The Habit was speaking to someone (or something) else in the room, and just as I can’t see the Habit, I couldn’t see whatever it was talking to either. I also couldn’t hear what the other was saying - I’ve only the Habit’s half of the conversation. I’ll try to recount as much as I can below.

“You don’t know when to stop, do you? You’re more stubborn than me, following us here to meddle.”

“Oh don’t give me that shit. You had your chance and you blew it big time, bud. It’s time you consider retiring this nonsense, don’t you think? Hell, even _I’ve_ made peace with it already. Now you’re just being a pest.”

“Go ahead and boast all you want, but you and I both fully realize that there is nothing left to gain, no coming back from what was lost. Even the dog can understand that, and it doesn’t even have a fucking head anymore!”

“No, I’m done cutting deals. Nothing you can offer will ever be of interest or remotely worthwhile. You have nothing on me and it’s so damn obvious. It’s kind of embarrassing, c’mon.”

“Ha, yeah, okay. _I’m_ the sore loser here, sure. Definitely. Says the guy practically begging me to fix all this. Makes a lot of sense to me!”

“Ah-ah-ah! Nuh-uh, nope. Not another word out of you. This discussion is over. Now get the hell out of here or I’ll force you out myself. You know I can fucking do it too.”

…

Once the talking stopped, I ran back to my desk as quickly as I could to record this account. Just in case, you know? I think it’s important. I can feel it.

(6)

It’s been a little while, but I can’t say how much time has passed. I sort of lost track after the previous entry and the Habit neglected to tell me itself. I guess it doesn’t actually matter.

I thought that the Habit would be angry about the eavesdropping I did earlier, but instead it was rather amused when it saw what I wrote.

“Even after everything, you still haven’t changed much.”

I know what it means but I can’t define the how or why in words. I sense the incredible weight of the past looming over me the more information I’m given and yet when I scrub my brain trying to solve the riddle, I still cannot see it all clearly.

Who was I before?

Who am I _now_?

(7a)

7:07 PM. I think it’s finally getting dark outside, but that’s not nearly as perplexing as the fact that I’ve been joined by another human being today. He’s sitting on the bed just behind me as this is being written.

His name is Evan. He didn’t tell me his name when he got here and yet I already knew who he was as soon as I opened the door to greet him. I’ve never even met this guy before - not in this lifetime anyways.

The Habit only described him as a “special guest appearance” - but is he a friend or foe? Evan seems like a nice guy, to be perfectly fair to him. I’ve no real reason to suspect ill-intent. It’s just...weird, is all. Especially weird since I can’t remember my relationship to him, just his name. 

A bit of companionship in this strange situation is wholly welcome though. Like I said, Evan is nice enough so far. A jokester with a dirty mouth, like the Habit, but way more endearing. I’d like to think of him as a friend before slating him as another enemy. 

I hope that’s the truth of the matter in the end.

(7b)

seven o clock at night

dunno where i am, dunno how i got here. all i know is theres this dude writing over at the desk nearby and im writing this on my lap cuz he told me to. said something about the importance of our written account or some shit. the fuck does that mean?

i dont know if i should trust this guy i mean he could easily be a fucking serial killer or whatever, but i dunno, hes alright to talk to i guess. its not like i can talk to anyone else here anyways, its just us. he seems weirdly chill about me just showing up here out of the blue though. its almost like he knows me but ive never met him. i think id remember a beard like his but nope, i got nothing

im not sure what he wants me to write cuz i dont have much to say to begin with. not long ago id just been going about my usual boring day and then poof! next thing i know im in front of a door to a cabin in the mountains somewhere. vinny told me about a creature or ghost or demon (he called it a lot of shit) named the habit and how this thing trapped him here and talks to him. ive no fuckin clue what hes goin on about and its kinda freaky honestly. at least thats the only weird thing about him so far

i think i can live with that, not that i have much of a choice anyways

(7c)

7 AM. Back to cloudy daylight skies.

The Habit says our time is up for introductions and the real bulk of the work is going to begin soon. I just barely got to know anything about Evan and now it seems like all my time is going to be taken up by writing for this invisible pest. I still don’t know what I’m even supposed to be writing, dammit! I know nothing! Nothing but a confounding puzzle. It’s like I’ve been given only the edge pieces to guide me in fitting everything else to their rightful place, but that still leaves a gaping emptiness in the center. How am I supposed to work with so little?

…

It’s 8 AM now. A lot has happened in the past hour.

Just after writing that first paragraph, I heard my name called aloud.

“VINNY.”

  
It’s Evan’s voice, but the sound echoed off the walls in layers of varying pitch making it very uncanny. At first I hadn’t noticed what was wrong, though. I put down my pen and turned my chair to face him, figuring he only wanted to chat. Well, _something_ wanted to chat all right.

Evan stood up from the bed as soon as I laid eyes on him, and his entire being took on a threatening aura. He was much different than before. Last night, despite our initial suspicions of each other, Evan and I managed to get along well within a few hours. But this was the polar opposite effect. I felt absolute fear at the mere sight of him.

Then I noticed he was wielding a peculiarly branded knife and my flight response kicked in; recognizing that blade was my undoing. I bolted towards the door - just took the fuck off running. I _tried_ to run. However, Evan grabbed me by the back of my shirt collar and yanked hard enough to throw me to the hardwood floor. I’m still aching from the impact.

“WHAT’S THE MATTER, VIN?” Evan asks in that unnatural speech, “ISN’T THIS WHAT YOU WANTED? MORE TO WORK WITH?”

I writhed on the ground in pain with my chest to the floor, unable to respond immediately. This made Evan visibly angry, and he soon pressed his knee and all his weight into my backside. I cried out, and one of his hands came around to clasp my mouth shut while the other held the knife to my throat. The strength he exhibited was otherworldly on its own, but the lethally sharp object grazing my neck was certainly the cherry on top of the ‘holy fuck I’m going to die’ cake.

“DO YOU REMEMBER THIS, VINNY? DO YOU REMEMBER ALL THE HORRORS AND SUFFERING AND BLOODSHED? THE VIOLENT ENDS WITH FRIENDS THAT WENT WITH IT?”

I wracked my brain trying to understand his cryptic wording, still reeling from fear and the agony of his knee in my spine. Even if I had understood it right then and there, I wasn’t given the opportunity to respond.

“YOU FOUGHT AND DIED, AND FOUGHT AND DIED, AND DIED AND DIED AND DIED. AND IT WASN’T JUST YOURSELF YOU KILLED. OPEN YOUR EYES AND EARS AND SOUL, VINCE. THE TRUTH LIVES HERE RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOU.”

As if on command, the puzzle pieces in my mind clicked together faster than I could even process in its full scope. But I knew for certain then that it wasn’t Evan I was talking to, it was the Habit instead. Evan's been possessed. He had been possessed before, in past lifetimes. I remembered. I remembered who Evan was to me. I remembered the wretchedness of the Habit’s influence and prowess. Yes...I remembered it all. And at that moment I realized I may have just lost my best friend yet again to this monstrous evil: the Habit’s and my own.

For the first time in God knows how long, tears streamed down my face in a silent, sorrowful cry. The Habit let go of my mouth, but the knife and its knee in my back remained. With this chance, words came flying from my lips.

“Let Evan go!” I desperately strained to shout, “Please, do whatever you want with me but let Evan go!”

“NO POINT IN MAKING A MARTYR OF YOURSELF THIS TIME AROUND, CHAMP,” the Habit replied, “THIS IS A TWO PERSON JOB.”

I screamed: “Oh god, please! Please don’t make me kill him again! _I don’t want him to die!_ ”

The Habit bellowed a laugh at that, and I could have sworn that the moment it got off of my back and backed away, Evan would return just to start pummeling me once more. An agonizing flashback to the past.

However, the Habit only stands upright and sheathes the knife at its side; crossing its arms thereafter. It wore an expression devoid of smugness or fright, no smile nor furrow of the brow. It appeared entirely concentrated upon me now, looking me over, nodding. Then it spoke.

“NO ONE IS GOING TO DIE.”

Slowly I sat up in disbelief, my body and soul ravished and confused, “No one will die? You must be bullshitting...just like all those other times you’ve lied to me. What makes you think I’ll fall for it now?”

“BECAUSE THERE IS NOTHING TO FALL FOR, VINNY. THAT'S THE BEAUTY OF THE TRUTH, IT SETS YOU FREE,” it says. The Habit then opens its arms wide in its signature symbolic gesture of grandiose.

“THIS IS THE END OF YOUR COLLECTIVE SUFFERING. A BRAND NEW BEGINNING.”

(8)

4:40 PM. The sun is out and there is not a single cloud in the sky. It’s a bright, beautiful afternoon.

Evan doesn’t remember what happened this morning after the Habit left his person, which I suppose I’m quite thankful for. After speaking to him yesterday, I concluded that he has no detrimental knowledge of our extensive history from beyond the veil as well. It’s all for the best, I think. It is not a pretty tale to tell after all, let alone relive the memories of such violence. The punishment is solely my burden to bear, as much as it is a precious and invaluable gift.

This time around will be different. All that the Habit asks in return is the transcription of its memoir on these pages, completed by myself.

I will admit, I am still skeptical of this ordeal...but reading back on the previous entries I wrote, well...you can be the judge. Maybe I’m just nuts. Either way though, I’ve agreed to this duty. I rather it be me than Evan or Jeff or Steph, if nothing else. They don’t deserve the extra work no matter the outcome; they’ve been through enough because of me to start with. Now I’m ending it all, sincerely this time. I am no martyr after all.

May this memoir brighten the future by shining light on the past.

Yours,

~ _Vinny Everyman_

[V]


End file.
